


Fair Trade

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Blue Balls, Consent Issues, Denial, Drama, Flirting, Homelessness, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Opposites Attract, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Poverty, Promiscuity, Prostitution, Romance, Seduction, Seductive Stiles Stilinski, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension, Slut Shaming, Slut vs. Prude, Snark, Stupidity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A college AU in which Derek is a prudish TA, and Stiles is sort of a professional slut.</p><p>Or, Stiles is both sex-positive and practical, and Derek really needs to get his head out of his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Homelessness is a major issue for many college students, some of whom resort to prostitution. If you find either of those topics triggering, please do not read any further.

* * *

 

Derek dragged his sorry ass out of bed after the alarm on his mobile phone rang for the third time. Third time was most definitely _not_ the charm, but he was due to give a Computer Science lecture at nine that he’d have to be marginally conscious for, so he had to shower, first. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned the knob until the water went from freezing to scalding. He stood with his head bowed under the deluge, letting it beat down on him, his mind blissfully blank.

It was eight o’clock when he emerged, considerably more awake and with steam dampening his skin. He mentally reviewed his notes as he got ready, shrugging into a Henley and a pair of jeans, and slinging his worn leather satchel over his shoulder as he toed on his sneakers.

The last thing he needed before setting off was a shot of coffee. He entered the kitchen, trying to be quiet in case his housemate, Mike, was still asleep—but ended up halting in his tracks at the sight of a complete stranger using the ancient coffee machine.

A very _shirtless_ complete stranger, clad in nothing but boxers. And hickeys. Lots and lots of hickeys.

“Who the hell are you?” Derek demanded, before putting two and two together and frowning. “I thought Mike had a girlfriend.”

“He does,” said the stranger, peacefully. He slid a mug of coffee toward Derek, across the kitchen platform, and began making another mug for himself without so much as a by-your-leave. “She just happens to be traveling, and Mike just happens to be sexually frustrated.” He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Shit happens.”

“He’s cheating on her,” Derek said, disbelievingly. Mike had seemed like the devoted type. Apparently not. “With you.”

“And that’s your business, how?” The man—boy? God, he looked barely over eighteen—studied Derek with heavy-lidded eyes. There was a laziness to him that was obviously post-coital, and now that Derek was paying attention, he could smell a whiff of sex from the guy, a distractingly musky, earthy scent.

Derek spluttered. “It’s my business if someone I don’t even know is lurking around in my kitchen!”

“I don’t lurk. I lounge. See?” And he went boneless, hip canted artfully against the counter, limbs loose and inviting.

Derek blinked. He’d never seen a body so blatantly _available_ before. It bordered on indecent. No, it bordered on pornographic, with that bitten throat on display, and those boxers riding up thighs that promised to be both lean and soft. This was precisely the kind of person Derek couldn’t stand—without principles and without decency.

“I’m Stiles, by the way. And you’re Derek Hale, I guess.” Stiles leered at him. “Mm. Aren’t _you_ pretty, up close. A darn sight prettier than Mike, that’s for sure.”

Derek ignored the taunting. It had to be taunting, didn’t it? “How did you—”

“I’m one of your students. Well. One of Professor Deaton’s students. You’re his graduate TA, aren’t you?”

“I don’t…” Derek tried desperately to place Stiles’s face, and while it was vaguely familiar, he was absolutely certain he hadn’t spotted that name on the roster. “There’s no one with that name in any of Deaton’s classes.”

“That’s because my real name is lame as fuck. Genim Stilinski, can you believe it?”

Wasn’t he the kid who’d gotten a perfect score for the previous assignment? Deaton had mentioned it briefly, about how Stilinski hardly ever attended lectures, but consistently managed to produce flawless code. No wonder Derek couldn’t recognize Stiles’s features, if Stiles had only shown up once or twice since the beginning of the semester. “If you’re Stilinski,” Derek glanced at his watch, which was now ticking past 8:15, “then you have a class in forty-five minutes.”

Stiles smirked. “So do you.”

“I expect you to be there.” Derek scowled at the bite-marks around Stiles’s left nipple. “Fully clothed.”

“Being a TA doesn’t give you the power to control my behavior.”

“Your behavior clearly needs to be controlled.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “You’re into that, are you? Gotta say, I don’t mind a bit of, heh, _discipline_.”

Derek growled, noticing that he’d let his coffee go cold while Stiles had been calmly sipping his own. “I’m catching the bus to the campus, because, unlike you, I have responsibilities. Those responsibilities include informing slackers like you that you _will_ drop a grade if you keep skipping classes.”

“Oooh, I’m scared. Not. I know I’m the smartest student in Deaton’s class, so I’ll drop from, what, an A+ to an A? That ain’t a painful loss. And don’t go calling me a slacker, just ’cause your job’s legit, and mine’s not. I spent all yesterday night working, okay? And some of this morning, too.”

“What do you mean, working? You and Mike were—” Derek hesitated. “No. You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious, all right.” At least, that’s what Stiles said, but he was grinning a manic grin, and Derek couldn’t figure out if this was all a stupid joke or if Stiles got his kicks out of scandalizing people.

“Mike _paid_ you?”

“Not exactly. Prostitution is illegal, so no money changed hands. But I did get to spend the night on a decent bed, for a change, and he said he’ll let me stay until his girlfriend gets back on Saturday. Plus, I get to make free meals for myself.” Stiles jerked his chin at the fridge. “From his groceries, not yours, don’t worry.”

“You…” Derek’s watch said it was half an hour to nine, but he couldn’t move. It was as though shock had immobilized him, had rooted his feet to the ground. “With your grades, you could get a scholarship.”

“Not with my juvenile delinquency record, I couldn’t. I almost didn’t get into college, at all.” Stiles padded to the sink, rinsing his empty mug. “I can’t afford to rent a place,” he said, idly, as if it didn’t bother him. “So I do what I can.”

“You mean you whore yourself out in exchange for a place to sleep.”

“Yeah. I do.” There wasn’t even a flicker of humiliation in Stiles’s expression, just a sharpening curve to his smile. “You’re awfully fixated on that.” Stiles stepped forward, crowding Derek against the nearest wall. “Does it turn you on, that I’m a whore? That I’ve sucked more cocks than you can count?” Stiles lowered his voice. “I’m very good, you know. I could be the best you’ve ever had.”

Stiles hooked a thumb into one of Derek’s belt loops, tugging teasingly, and Derek flinched away, suddenly realizing that he’d been staring at that full, bruised mouth.

“Did you just blow Mike?” he blurted, before he could stop himself.

Stiles laughed. “Of course I did. Can’t you tell?”

Mike chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, bleary and messy-haired and cracking yawns. He saw Stiles and Derek, paused, and moved on, making an uneven beeline for the coffee machine. “You can borrow him, if you want,” he said to Derek, waving at Stiles, and like a pet coming to heel, Stiles withdrew from Derek, slinging an arm across Mike’s shoulders and planting an obnoxiously loud smooch on his cheek.

“You betcha,” Stiles said, cheerfully. “Derek’s so goddamn _proper_ , and I like proper boys.”

Mike snorted. “Don’t mess him up too badly.”

“I’d rather he messed me up, actually.”

Derek gaped at them. It was like his housemate—a maudlin drunk, smitten boyfriend and average student—had been replaced by an alien. An alien that didn’t mind essentially buying sex from somebody who may not have been selling it unless they had to. Stiles acted like he didn’t have to, but that didn’t change the fact that he _did_ have to.

Did it?

It made Derek a little sick to his stomach, and oddly guilty, for letting his gaze linger on the sparse trail of hair that disappeared into Stiles’s boxers, for imagining himself holding Stiles’s strangely delicate wrists. Stiles projected an aura of unbreakability, but those wrists… they gave the lie to that pretense.

Stiles and Mike were sniggering about something when Derek departed, leaning into each other.

Derek cursed as he tumbled out of the apartment and raced to catch the campus bus, determined not to be late because his housemate had decided to pseudo-hire a live-in fuck buddy. There had to be rules against this. There _ought_ to have been rules against it, but Derek couldn’t recall this situation being covered in their housemate agreement.

That said, losing an otherwise acceptable housemate because of a couple of nights of inappropriate behavior would be a pity. Mike kept his room clean, and didn’t leave junk all over the place. Plus, he didn’t argue about expenses, and always paid his share of the bills.

It was only until Saturday, anyway. Three more days. Derek could tolerate Stiles skulking around for three more days.

Then Mike’s girlfriend would return, and life would revert to normal.

And Derek could go back to ignoring the fact that, for a second there, he’d been tempted by Stiles’s offer.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Stiles didn’t show up at the lecture. Derek had expected it, and maybe it was a blessing, because Derek uncharacteristically forgot his notes a grand total of four times, and had to resort to his cue cards. He hadn’t had to do that since he’d become a TA, eight months ago. It was embarrassing and frustrating, and Derek knew that he shouldn’t blame others for his own mistakes, but he couldn’t help blaming Stiles, a little. Or a lot.

After the lecture, Derek picked up a cappuccino from the campus café and sipped at it resentfully, pissed off that he’d missed his usual dose of morning caffeine as a result of Mike’s sexual misadventures. No day that began without coffee went well. It was like a curse. As Derek trudged across the mowed lawn to the Computer Science department, he tried to predict how Murphy’s Law would fuck with him, today.

He wasn’t even surprised when the sprinklers came on midway through the lawn. Directly under his shoes, no less, spraying him in the face.

Of _course_ that would happen. Of course he’d end up drenched on an already cloudy day. It’d probably rain buckets this afternoon, when he journeyed home. Heck, his very own personal raincloud might follow him into his apartment, raining on him and nobody else. That was just how things were. It figured that he’d left his umbrella in his rush to escape from Stiles.

Derek threw his paper cup into a trashcan outside the foyer of the gray-and-blue CompSci building, and dripped water onto the floor of the lift he took up to Deaton’s office. He must’ve been sporting one heck of a glower, because the people in the lift shrank away from him.

Professor Deaton looked amused when Derek knocked perfunctorily on his open door.

“You okay, kid?” Deaton asked, perceptive as ever. His bald pate gleamed in the light from the window. “You resemble a very irritated wet kitten. Or a wet tiger, I suppose.”

“I’m fine,” Derek ground out, dropping his satchel on the threadbare carpet and sinking into the notoriously uncomfortable chair opposite Deaton’s desk. In his current state of paranoia, it occurred to Derek that Deaton might be keeping that chair around to ensure that visitors never overstayed their welcome. A few minutes in that deathtrap were sufficient to give Derek a crick in the neck. “It’s just that your chair is from furniture hell.”

“Uh-huh,” said Deaton, dubiously. “Sure, it’s a chair that’s upsetting you. Not girl trouble? Boy trouble?”

“I haven’t dated in three years.”

“That might be the problem,” Deaton remarked, mildly. “When did you last get laid?”

“Professor!” Derek exclaimed, aghast. What was _wrong_ with the world, lately? Had everybody become obsessed with sex? Was there sex pollen in the atmosphere? Nah. If there was, he’d have caught it, too. “Can we focus on our work, please?”

Deaton chuckled. “As you say. So, have you marked the assignments from CS103?”

“Yeah.” Derek rummaged in his satchel for the printout tallying the marks, and handed it to Deaton. “Only Dunbar had trouble writing code that compiled correctly. The rest of the students got passing grades, although some of them were clearly struggling with the switch from Python to Java. I’ve emailed you the Excel sheet listing their marks for every assignment this term, if you’d like to review them.”

Deaton surveyed the printout, brow wrinkling with concern. “Where’s Stilinski’s grade?”

Derek felt a weird, sharp emotion he couldn’t identify; all he could discern was that it was unpleasant. “He didn’t submit his assignment.”

“That’s worrying. The assignments he does submit are exceptional, but… What has he been doing, this week?”

 _Fucking his way through college,_ Derek didn’t say. “Damned if I know. I haven’t seen him in a single class.”

“I rarely notice him in my classes, either.” Deaton tucked the printout into a neatly labeled manila folder on his desk. “Maybe you should have a talk with him.”

“A talk?” Derek barked out a laugh, harsh and angry. “You can’t just _talk_ to him. He’s…” _Slutty. Impossible. Intolerable._ “Insufferable.”

Deaton regarded Derek in astonishment. “My, my,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you harbor such antagonism toward anyone. What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.” Except offer to suck Derek off.

“Could he be the reason for your sudden hatred of my innocent chair?”

“No.” Derek reached for his satchel. “Are we going to discuss my thesis, or should I see myself out?”

“Patience, you must have, my young Padawan,” said Deaton, merrily, and Derek—Derek had had enough. Even his bloody supervisor had been infected by pointless frivolity.

“I’ve got stuff to do,” he said, shortly. “I’m going. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Oops. I might’ve pushed you too far.” Deaton didn’t sound apologetic, however. “Tomorrow, then!”

Derek reflected that aging professors had limited options for entertainment, and riling their students up was bound to be one of them. “Bye,” he said, and didn’t give in to the urge to slam the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Derek renewed his discounted membership at the college gym and spent two hours running, doing weights, hitting the punching bag and sweating out his aggression. Hey, if it worked for fevers, maybe it’d work for whatever the hell Genim “Stiles” Stilinski had done to him. Exercise was generally more effective at clearing Derek’s mind than meditation, because it burned off the tension that perpetually haunted him, that made his shoulders stiff and his teeth grind.

It did, in fact, rain as he walked from the gym to the bus station, but he’d achieved a state of calm after all that mindless exertion, and he welcomed the coolness of the raindrops on his clammy skin. The ache in his muscles was deeply satisfying, and he slumped into a seat on the bus, tired and relieved and feeling like himself, again.

He wasn’t even annoyed about the Stiles situation by the time he got to his apartment. What Mike did with his sexual partners wasn’t Derek’s business; Stiles had been right about that. Derek wouldn’t interfere with his housemate’s bizarre sexcapades. He’d mind his manners, as he’d been raised to do.

Still, he couldn’t help being careful as he crept into the apartment, like a teenager slinking in after curfew. It was ridiculous, given that Derek was the primary tenant and he was just subletting to Mike, but he didn’t want to barge in on Mike screwing Stiles on the couch.

What he walked in on, instead, was Stiles curled up on the couch with a laptop on his lap and a patchy, bulging backpack by his side. There was also the distinct aroma of roast chicken and garlic on the air, tugging Derek inexorably in the direction of the kitchen. He manfully resisted.

“Hey,” said Stiles, peering at his computer screen. “Before you start nagging me, I’m aware my assignment’s overdue. I’m submitting it online, tonight.”

“You’ll lose marks.”

“So I’ll lose marks. Big whoop. Oh, and your dinner’s in the oven, wrapped in foil.”

“I thought you said you’d be cooking with Mike’s ingredients. I can’t eat it.”

“Just shut up and eat it, already.” The keyboard clicked as Stiles typed. “Consider it a peace offering.”

“From you, or from Mike?”

“Does it matter?”

Derek hovered, indecisive. He was starving, but he and Mike had never shared groceries, before. It wasn’t in the housemate agreement.

“For crying out loud, Derek, eat the fucking food. It’s not rocket…” Stiles looked up at him, and his eyes widened. “…science. Whoa.”

“What?” said Derek, self-consciously, as Stiles inspected him from head to toe. There was a disturbing quality to his attention, something hungry and unsettling.

“Do you often go around in crotch-hugging sweatpants and a soaked, see-through shirt? ’Cause I’m tellin’ ya, you’re more like a professional gigolo than I am.”

Derek glared. There it was. He’d known Stiles would inevitably offend him. He’d _known_. “It’s raining outside, and I’ve just come from the gym. That’s why I’m wearing what I’m wearing. My jeans are in my bag.”

“Holy shit. You have no idea how hot you are, do you? Is it because you scare most admirers away?”

His hard-earned calm fading quickly, Derek about-turned like a soldier and marched into the kitchen. He would eat that damn chicken. He deserved that chicken. Stiles _owed_ him that chicken.

Derek plonked a plate onto the kitchen platform, unwrapped the roast chicken, garlic bread and vegetables on top of it, and wolfed it all down in thirty seconds flat. He didn’t even bother sitting.

When he was finished, he realized Stiles had followed him and was leaning against the archway leading into the kitchen, smiling. “It’s like feeding a wild animal,” Stiles observed.

“You’re the animal, here.”

“Maybe we’re both animals,” Stiles said, with a sly coyness, and approached Derek slowly, as if Derek really were a beast. “And isn’t that interesting?”

Derek stood there, immobile, as though under a spell. There was a predatory sway to Stiles’s hips, a mesmerizing, feline grace. Stiles was dressed in a T-shirt and pajamas, but the way he moved made it obvious how his body would move if… if…

“Don’t,” Derek whispered, abruptly dizzy.

“Don’t what?” Stiles murmured as he drew close. He ran a finger down the middle of Derek’s chest, a line of heat through the cold, clinging fabric. Derek shivered.

The floorboards creaked beneath them, and Derek returned to his senses with a snap, grabbing Stiles’s hand and shoving him off. “I’m not sleeping with you as a form of _payment_ ,” he hissed.

Stiles recoiled like he’d been struck. “That wasn’t—that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Wasn’t it?” Derek’s heart was pounding and his legs were unsteady, but he gathered the strength to stagger away from Stiles. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

He went to his room without looking back, and told himself he wasn’t fleeing.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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